


Oughtta Leave Young Thing Alone

by dreamsnspires



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e04 Let's Get to Scooping, Gap Filler, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsnspires/pseuds/dreamsnspires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor comes to Oliver, dirty and broken. Oliver takes him in and serenades him to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oughtta Leave Young Thing Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrongtree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrongtree/gifts).



> For Caitlin.
> 
> Inspired by Conrad's lovely and breathtaking [rendition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3NRXEK2nVk) of Bill Withers' 'Ain't No Sunshine' and my and Caitlin's resulting urgent need for Oliver-Singing-to-Connor fic. 
> 
> I hope this is all the *sad face, anguish face, streaming tears face, crossed arm girl* emojis that you were hoping for, Caitlin.

 

*******

Oliver wakes with a start. 

Is it morning already? He turns to fumble for his phone and turn the alarm off. Only it’s not his phone that’s woken him.

Muted thuds sound through the apartment. Someone’s at the door.

6:07 am. 

Groaning, he rolls out of bed, and stumbles toward the incessant pounding. Oliver undoes the lock and pulls the door open.

At first, he’s sure he’s still dreaming. He squints, making sure the person in the hallway is who he thinks it is. “Conner?” 

No response. Just pacing, and labored breaths and fists clenched tight at his sides. 

“What are you doing here?” Oliver asks. 

Conner finally stops pacing and looks up. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“It’s 6 am.”

Conner laughs a bit hysterically. “Early bird gets the worm right?” If this is Conner’s idea of a joke, Oliver is so not in the mood. He considers shutting the door right then, going back to bed for another hour. But then— 

“Are you on something?” Oliver asks. Connor had never mentioned being into drugs, didn’t seem the type. Not like he’d disclose anything to Oliver anyway. But then why was he pacing in the hallway, fingers raking through his uncharacteristically disheveled hair, eyes wide with panic.

“Oh, I wish” Conner is still pacing; his breathing is becoming more labored. It’s making Oliver uneasy, knots twisting tighter in his stomach with every step Connor takes.

But despite the unease, he’s still kind of annoyed at being woken so early, especially with Connor so unwilling to actually state what the hell he’s doing there. “You smell. Is that smoke?”

Connor lifts his arm to his nose, smells the jacket, and his face crumples. “I screwed up, Oliver.” He turns around and backs up against the wall, slides down until he’s crouched near the floor. He’s curled up, head bowed, breath coming hot and fast into his palms. “I screwed up so bad. I screwed up I screwed up I screwed up.” The phrase is like a prayer on his lips. A litany of confessions in need of forgiveness.

Oliver’s annoyance is gone, replaced now by concern. He lowers himself to Connor’s level slowly, afraid of spooking him, and places his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Connor. What happened?" 

The meat of Connor’s palms are jammed into his eye sockets, as though he is trying to rub himself out of existence. “Oh god oh god oh god.” 

“Connor, I’m serious. Watching you freak out is really not fun. You’re scaring me.” 

And then Connor just stills. Looks up. His eyes have cleared and he looks Oliver straight in the eyes. “I could get arrested for this.”

And, wow. Oliver suspected it was bad, because Connor is Connor. But this isn't Connor. Connor is strong and he’s confident and nothing fazes him. So if he’s here on Oliver’s doorstep literally breaking down before the sun has even risen above the Philadelphia skyline, then there must be something gravely wrong. If Connor could be arrested… “I would never let that happen.” Oliver says. And he wouldn’t, he realizes. He’d protect Connor at his own risk. It’s what he’s always done. It’s what they’ve always been. Oliver and Connor against the villain of the month. Maybe not OliverAndConnor, but well. It was better than nothing.

Oliver moves to crouch in front of Connor. Takes his face in his hands and forces him to make eye contact again. He takes a breath, accepts that maybe the fallout from this will hurt more than the past month has. “Connor, come inside.” 

With the pacing and hyperventilating stopped, all the life has left Connor. He gazes, unseeing, into Oliver’s eyes. It’s unnerving without the barrier of his glasses to shield him. “Connor, come on.” Oliver grasps him beneath the arms and struggles to pull Connor to his feet. It’s slow going, but he guides Connor into the apartment. Gentles the door closed and it shuts with a soft snick.

Oliver wraps his hands around the meat of Connor’s shoulders and leads him to bathroom. The stench of smoke and something _else_ is overwhelming. He doesn’t want to know. In the bathroom, Oliver reaches into the stall, starts the shower, closes the curtain to let it warm up.

Connor is staring again. Frozen in front of the mirror engaged in a futile battle of wills with his reflection. Oliver turns him away, begins undressing him. First come the gloves, caked with earth and fraying in the fingertips. Then Connor’s scarf; it’s uneven and there’s a jagged hole ripped in the material. Next, Oliver peels off Connor’s coat. His keys tumble out of the pocket, and the resulting jangle on the tile floor disrupts the gentle murmur of the running shower. Oliver slowly pulls the soiled henley over Connor’s head. The pits are damp and stained dark. He carefully undoes the buckle on Connor’s jeans, all of the usual eroticism and anticipation of the action absent this morning. He pushes Connor’s jeans and boxers down in one movement, then lifts each of his feet out of the pile of clothes.

Oliver stands and sticks his hand in the shower, testing the water. It’s a bit hotter than Oliver normally likes, but he figures Connor could use it considering his state and the chill in the late November air.

He guides Connor into the shower and under the spray. It’s kind of awkward from this angle, would be easier if he was in there with him. But—would that be inappropriate considering Connor’s state? Fuck it. Nothing about this is pleasurable for either of them. Oliver strips his flannel pajama bottoms and white crew neck, quickly slipping into the shower to escape the chill.

Connor is facing the spray, just letting the jets pelt him in the face. Oliver turns Connor around, rubs his hands up and down his arms to warm him up, even though the water is probably doing that well enough. It’s only been a few weeks, but touching Connor is still a wonder. Oliver didn’t realize how much he’d missed this. Or maybe he did, but he’d been doing a good job of convincing himself otherwise.

Connor seems content to let Oliver do all the work, so Oliver grabs the shampoo bottle, some spearmint eucalyptus concoction that he likes for its sinus-clearing abilities. It works wonders when his allergies are acting up. But the salesperson had also lauded its stress-relieving and calming properties. Something about the crisp smell of nature reminding us of our home among the trees or something. A bit woo-woo, but it had seemed worth the twenty-dollar price tag at the time.

Oliver encourages Connor to bend his head forward a bit, and then he rubs the shampoo in his hands and lathers up Connor’s head. He scritches his scalp and rubs the pads of his fingers in, not hard, but with enough pressure for Connor to whimper a bit. It doesn’t sound pained, but Oliver eases up anyway and then nudges Connor back into the spray to wash the soap out. Connor just looks at Oliver as the suds run from his hair into his eyes and down his face.  Oliver reaches up, shields Connor’s eyes from the soap and rinses the sudsy remnants from the limp strands.

Sensing Connor’s fatigue, Oliver quickly soaps the rest of Connor’s body; down his torso, around his groin, and down his legs. Connor braces himself on Oliver’s shoulders as he gently scrubs the tops of his feet, and then Oliver stands slowly, and urges Connor under the spray once more. When the water has run clear, Oliver reaches around Connor and shuts off the flow. He guides Connor back out of the shower, and as soon as the air hits his skin, Connor shudders. A bigger shiver than the slight change in temperature from the shower cubicle to the bathroom warrants, Oliver thinks. He wraps Connor in a fluffy towel, rubs his skin until it’s dry and pink from friction and residual heat.

Oliver guides Connor from the bathroom and settles him on the bed. Goes to the dresser for a spare pair of pajamas. Oliver dresses himself and then Connor, and then settles Connor on his side in bed. Pulls the covers up over him and makes a move to cross the room. Connor whimpers.

“Hey, hey.” Oliver grabs his hand, gently rubs his thumb across his palm. “I’m not going anywhere. Just wanna turn the bathroom light off.” Connor relents and Oliver’s back at his side in a moment. He encourages Connor to scoot over a bit, so he can join him in bed. 

Connor’s breathing is getting labored again. He’s mumbling, “We had to do it, we had to do it. It had to be done.”

Oliver wraps himself around Connor, shushes him, pets his damp hair, whispers, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” But that’s not working. Connor’s breath is ramping up and he’s close to hyperventilating again. The whispered admonition is back. “I screwed up I screwed up I screwed up.” Conner’s still muttering those words like a mantra. Oliver isn’t sure whether he’s talking about whatever happened last night, or if he’s talking about _them_.

Whatever the reason, it’s breaking Connor. Spoken reassurances aren’t working, so Oliver takes a deep breath, recalls the words that have echoed through his apartment for weeks on end. He sings. Softly. 

_Ain't no sunshine when he’s gone  
It's not warm when he’s away_

Connor’s breath catches for a moment. He starts up again, breath still quick, but it’s slowing.

 _Ain't no sunshine when he’s gone_  
_And he’s always gone too long_  
_Anytime he goes away_

Connor closes his eyes and burrows into Oliver’s chest.

Oliver sings.

_I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,_

_Hey, I oughtta leave young thing alone_

He heaves a deep shaking breath.

_But ain't no sunshine when he’s gone_

Connor’s out. His breathing has slowed to a crawl, but his grip on Oliver’s t-shirt hasn’t loosened at all.

Across the room, Oliver’s clock shows 6:55. On any other day, his alarm would go off in five minutes. He’d curse the daylight, and then stagger from bed towards the bathroom to shower and get on with the day. Only he’s been up for an hour and he’s already showered and unlike any other day, this morning, he’s got his arms full of boy. _This boy_. And he doesn’t want to get up. Can’t bring himself to disturb the sleeping boy in his arms.

So, gently as he can, Oliver twists in Connor’s grip, reaches awkwardly behind him to grab his cell phone off the side table. He thumbs the screen unlocked and then disables his alarm, just one minute before the cacophonous sound is set to pierce their cocoon of quiet. Then he opens his messages, scrolls to ‘Cheryl – Boss’ and types a new message.

_Sorry so last minute. Won’t be in today. Family emergency._

He’s usually more eloquent than that, even via text, but Connor is stirring in his arms, so he quickly sends the message and turns off his phone. Connor is fisting his shirt again, scrabbling for purchase like he can’t get close enough. His face is scrunched up, anguish written in the slant of his eyebrows and the wrinkles around his eyes. A nightmare perhaps. 

Oliver gently rubs his back, and resumes his melodic comfort. He hums, not wanting to wake Connor.

 _Ain't no sunshine when he’s gone_  
_Only darkness every day._

Oliver pulls the blankets up tighter around them. He sings them both to another place, somewhere without mistakes and regret and reunions under all the wrong circumstances. Oliver cradles Connor close, closes his eyes, and prays Connor’s still there when Oliver opens them again.

_Cuz this house just ain't no home  
Anytime he goes away._

_*******_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
